sing me something i need
by makapedia
Summary: He might consider himself a composer for a moment, because there are harmonies between meister Maka and early morning Maka, the one who slides her hands beneath waist bands and strokes him lovingly, slowly.


The hands petting down his stomach aren't his undoing. **  
**

It's not that they aren't distracting, because they are – she's all gentle hands and calloused fingers stroking down his bare abdomen that makes his blood burn and his dick twitch. It's arousing and flustering but it's not the blunt of her ministrations. She leaves a trail of warmth in her wake. It's enticing and troubling, and the leg that links around his hip doesn't help either, but it's not the way she combs her fingers down his naval or rubs her thigh over his that really gets him going – it's the voice murmuring into his ear. It's Maka's voice, angels and bells and breathy sighs of his name.

She's mumbles and intakes of breath, warm against the crook of his neck and lobe of his ear. It's like she's a blanket of heat curling around him, swaddling him, because there's sly little tongue ribbing along the side of his jaw and a palm pressing against the center of his abdomen and Soul doesn't know how to think anymore. It's hard to remember to breathe – inhale, exhale, rinse and repeat – when she kisses behind his ear and whispers his name, like it's a secret, just for him.

Her hand slides down and traces the contours of his erection gently; she uses the ghost of a touch to flutter along the shape of him, clad only in boxers and the noticeable tremble of his hips.

He wheezes, exalts breath and shudders. "Maka," he groans.

"Mmm."

She's so close to his ear and her voice is warm. It's darkened and deepened by lusty tones that he's not accustomed to but wants to learn; he might consider himself a composer for a moment, because there are harmonies between meister Maka and early morning Maka, the one who slides her hands beneath waist bands and strokes him lovingly, slowly.

She parts her lips, breathes in and he feels it in his bones. Her fingers wrap around him and she pumps languidly, taking her time and drawing it out, and Soul thinks he might die. It's probably the second best way to go.

(The first is buried between her legs and crushed by her thighs – the only pair of earmuffs he'll ever need is her soft flesh and heated skin. It's his home.)

" _Soooul,_ " she murmurs. "You're so _warm,_ Soul."

He grunts incoherently. Speech isn't a thing he's capable of right now. All he knows is her hand and her mouth and _her voice,_ so unusually throaty but still sweet, like angels with devil horns and pigtails stained with blood. It's so _Maka_ that it has him jerking against her hand and earning himself another kiss to the neck, earns her fingers tightening their grasp and then everything is great, good, _fantastic._

He grapples for anything to secure himself to her. A palm smooths down the slight swell of her hips and he presses his fingers into the softness of her thigh, porcelain skin that's marred with faded scars and a darling beauty mark that's nestled too close to her panty line for his state of mind.

She gasps delightfully and then she's _enchanting_ , she's high pitch and a soft squeak that breaks part way as he grazes a thumb along her inner thigh. Feeling the way she squirms against him is stimulating, and the fiery, soaking heat that presses against his now bare hip has his blood pumping southward. There's just a pair of pale pink panties between his skin and heaven, everything he's ever dreamed of in life, and to feel her grinding against him to please herself makes him throb and pant.

Her voice is tinged with sweetness but coated with a hearty heat that burns through him. It's _still_ so Maka, frustratingly so – that voice has nagged him to do his homework and cried over him alike, has validated him and giggled and cheered and enthralls him the way it dips and rises over pitches. She bites and nibbles at the area beneath his ear and he jerks in her hand. He thrusts his hips because he can't help it, she's too much for him, and when she moans in his ear and asks him to come, he does as he's trained and obeys his meister.

But it's not like he has a choice; her hands are warm and her voice is even warmer, syrupy and glowing with shades of Maka that he's barely been introduced to. He's intrigued. He's interested. He's coming and his eyes slam shut, and all he can feel is her damp heat pressed snug against his hip and her breath on his neck.

Her lips glide from his neck to his jaw, kissing and pressing and nibbling.

"… That was not cuddling," he manages.

He can feel her smile against his skin. "No?" she teases, and then slides her hands up and he gropes blindly for his box of tissues. He rubs the mess off of her fingers sluggishly but surely, gentle with each (wonderful powerful godsent) digit as she giggles and mumbles her thanks.

And then he's rolling over and pressing her against his bed. Her eyes are bright and her lips are pink, but he spends less time kissing her mouth and more trailing smooches down her bare chest and smooth stomach. He peeks a glance up to watch her tip her chin back and lips press into the shape of a gasp when he kisses her beauty mark.

"This isn't cuddling either," she rasps. He thinks he loves the way her breath breaks the tone of her voice, the way her lips shape words and the sureness of her tongue.

He's working on shimmying her panties down her hips when he replies, "Nah," and she keens when he presses a kiss to her core and glides his tongue along heated, wet flesh and breathes her name. It's music to his ears and he feels it in his soul, feels every shake and quake of her voice. When she forces breath through her nose and her hips squirm, he smoothes a hand down her stomach and suckles nosily.

It's impressive that he can hear her over his own noises, but she's high and fluttering amidst his much lower, more guttural noises. Maka is heated breath and _Soul, **please** Soul,_ and he wants to deliver, wants to stroke her heat with his tongue and his fingers and live there, live where it's welcoming and warm and he can elicit the most delightful noises from his ordinarily very poised meister.

He likes her sleepy voice. It's groggy and murky and hot. He likes her sleepy eyes and lazy lips, too – likes the way she bites her lip and watches him, likes the way she grasps blindly for his head and combs and tugs his hair. But most of all, he likes the way she sounds when she comes, early in the morning when she's still half asleep and her eyes are molten evergreens, murky with her exhaustion and a heat for him and him alone.

He loves the way she cries his name. He loves the way she sounds when she's breathing, like she's beautiful even in rests between her crescendos.

He smiles slowly and kisses her thigh. Her leg twitches and she leans her head back against his pillows and searches for ground – his hand, maybe, because he offers and she laces her fingers between his and squeezes.

"Morning, nerd," he says.

Her sluggish, sated smile is everything. "So good."


End file.
